I joined him. “At the Villa, when you didn’t want me going inside, I really wasn’t ignoring you. I saw you go inside, so I followed. Like in the alley. I was only trying to find you.”

He dipped his chin, acknowledging me, but he stayed rigid, his eyes hidden behind his shades.

“I can be stubborn,” I said. “But you know it’s more than that. I want to face whatever’s out there. It’d be too easy to hide. Too tempting. Just pull the covers over my head until it all goes away. But today? You were right. I didn’t need to see . . .” I swallowed. “I really didn’t need to see James like that.”

“True, but encountering his ghost may help in the long term.”

“You heard me tell Rose I saw that?”

“I wasn’t supposed to? I’m sorry for not realizing it was a private conversation. But you mentioned that he apologized and I’m glad you had that opportunity, even if I’d have preferred you could have avoided seeing his body.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, just like he treated omens, fae, and visions. The question of what I’d seen was not a question at all. Clearly, I’d seen a ghost.

James’s ghost.

My breath hitched, and I turned around fast, before the tears came.

“Sorry,” I said. “Just give me a moment.” Did I actually just say that? All the times I’d given him shit for saying take a moment, the very phrase bristling with impatience. I wanted to make a joke about that, but when I opened my mouth, a hiccuping sob escaped. I pressed my palms to my eyes.

Get it together. You can break down later. Don’t dump this on him.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that it’s still sinking in.”

“I wish you wouldn’t . . .” He trailed off.

“You wish I wouldn’t keep breaking down.”

A long moment of silence. Then, “That wasn’t what I was going to say, Olivia.”

He cleared his throat, as if struggling to find words, and I swore I heard a soft growl of frustration.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Whatever you meant, I—”

“I meant that I wish you wouldn’t apologize for your reactions. I wish that you didn’t feel the need to apologize. But I understand why you do. You are correct. I have little patience with emotional outbursts. Yet sometimes I may convey the impression of impatience when I’m simply frustrated by the awareness that I am . . . not responding . . . in a way . . .”

I felt sparks of friction, of discomfort, as if I were forcing his hand into a tank of electric eels.

I wanted to turn to him, but I was afraid if I did, he’d mistake my smile for mockery. I squeezed my eyes shut, finding the right expression, and—